Amid the Poppies
by bellz.on.strings
Summary: Henry/Dorian slash. After Sibyl’s death, Henry comes over to comfort young Dorian, but things don’t quite go according to plan. Rated T for implied yaoi themes and spoilers. One shot, so don't ask for more.


Amid the Poppies

A/N: Most of the beginning is based heavily on the actual novel, just to set the tone, but I did not copy anything word for word, except some of the dialogue.

HEAVY SPOILER ALERT.

Background: Dorian Gray is a handsome young man living in England at the end of the 1800's. Shortly after his friend, Basil, paints a perfect portrait of young Dorian, Dorian meets Lord Henry Wotton, a cunningly wicked individual with a taste for debauchery. Dorian soon begins to change under Henry's destructive influence. Wishing to stay beautiful forever, Dorian sells his soul so that the portrait will change, and not he. Soon after, the portrait begins to bear the marks of Dorian's wickedness, while the young debauch remains handsome and young. Soon after all this, Dorian falls in love with a beautiful actress named Sibyl Vane. However, after he declares his love to her, she loses her prestigious acting ability. Furious, Dorian declares that he hates her and never wants to see her again.

Chapter 1

Dorian was alone. Looking about him, he saw nothing but glowing poppies, their own light in the dark vastness around him. He gazed upwards, the sky a stretch of dark canvas, inked spilled across its wide expanse, starless.

Poppies swished past him, their white heads bobbing and nodding in his wake.

"Sibyl?" The word sounded hollow to Dorian and he tried again. "Sibyl? It is I, Dorian." Again, the name whispered vacantly back at him, strangely close and haunted in the open air. "Where have you gone?"

A strange panic was clawing at the young man and his hands trembled as he hurried through the endless field, the poppies bowing.

Suddenly, Dorian's foot collided with something more solid then the whispering blooms and he stumbled. Looking down into the snow of petals, he saw a folded form, a pale coin of a face below a dark spill of hair. Slowly, the figure unbent itself, rising like bird, the face as white as the poppies. It was Sibyl.

"Sibyl, I've found you!" Dorian ran to embrace her, but she shook her head. The slender grace of life had left her; the silver poetry of Shakespeare no longer flowed through her veins. The Sibyl that stood before Dorian was but a cold shadow, nothing more than a pair of dew frosted lips and blue rouged cheeks.

Silently, a tiny hand shook from a sleeve and offered to Dorian a small, crushed narcissus, its bruised petals stained with blood from her palm.

Dorian stepped back, horrified. "Sibyl, what has happened to you?" he cried, stumbling into the poppies. But Sibyl only smiled, letting the narcissus fall from her hand, sending it fluttering into the sea of petals. Then, slowly, as if time was suddenly flowing backwards, Sibyl re-bent her legs beneath her, lowered herself into the poppies, and lay very still.

Poppies sown with blood.

Dorian's eyes grew wide with horror, but as he turned to run, he ran squarely into a solid form. The young man opened his eyes and screamed. His own face, twisted with beautiful disdain, stared down at the spot where Sibyl lay.

"Prince Charming will save you," the cruel Dorian whispered, and smiled.

Chapter 2

Dorian awoke with a small jerk, the clock chiming the quarter-hour. Shaking, he passed a slender hand over his eyes. His eyes swiveled to the screen across the room, though he tried not to picture the face on the other side, that smiling devil burned on canvas. Unconsciously, Dorian drew the covers around himself ever so slightly, trapping the warmth of sleep around his shivering shoulders. Suddenly, he needed someone there, not the half-remembered faces of nightmares and illusions. With trembling fingers, he touched the bell, wishing for Henry, but instead getting Victor, the old butler.

"What o'clock is it, Victor?" Dorian asked, already feeling weary of this day. Victor set down his silver tray by his master's side.

"One hour and a quarter, monsieur," the butler replied genially, drawing the curtains open with a sweep. Cheered marginally by the rush of sunlight, Dorian reached for the tea and stack of letters on the tray. The first letter was from Henry. Dorian glanced at it before setting it aside. He liked to savor Henry's letters and decided to open the more tedious messages first. The first envelope contained a pair of tickets to an opera performance in a fortnight's time.

"To Mr. Gray," read the small card. "In the hopes that he will attend. Do bring that wickedly charming friend of yours, Dorian. Fond regards." It was signed in swirling gold ink by the Duchess of Harley. Dorian set the card aside with a faint smile, placing the tickets delicately back into the envelope. He would have to remember to send the second ticket to Henry.

The next three cards were bills, the fourth another invitation, this one to a charity dinner hosted by Lady Agatha. At this, Dorian groaned. Since meeting Henry, ordinary events had become hopelessly dull. He tossed the invitation back onto the tray with the bills and sifted through the last few letters aimlessly.

Finally, he got out of bed, feeling as though the day was already over. The clock chimed its fragile tune to measure out another half-hour. Yawning generously, Dorian slipped into a fine cashmere dressing robe, stepping into the bathroom to wash. After splashing cold water on his sleep-clouded face, he felt immensely more cheerful, and with a light step, went down to the library for breakfast.

Just as Dorian was standing after a light, French-style brunch, there was a knock. Dorian recognized his friend's voice calling him from beyond the doors.

"My dear boy." Henry rapped upon the door once more. "I must see you. Let me in at once. I can't bear you shutting yourself up like this."

Bemused by his friend's anxious tone, Dorian went quickly to open the door.

"I'm sorry for it all, Dorian," Henry said as he strode into the sunlight library. He plucked his yellow gloves from his hands and pocketed them, sinking into a chair.

Dorian searched his friend's face. He had never seen Henry look so weary.

"It was dreadful, from one point of view," Henry was saying, glancing about the room distractedly. "But it was not your fault."

Thinking back to his dream, Dorian felt a blush of shame color his cheeks. It was his fault. He thought back to the night before, the image of Sibyl sobbing at his feet no longer tinged with the red hatred of a swiftly fallen temper, but instead softened with pity and remorse. Poor Sibyl was no doubt curled in her mother's lap, sobbing like only a child can, the face powder from last evening's performance still upon her face now streaked by tears.

"You mean about…Sibyl Vane?" Dorian's voice caught on these last two words.

"Yes, of course."

Dorian wondered if Sibyl would forgive him. He remembered their stolen kisses in the dressing room after a performance, the way she whispered her name for him in his ear.

"Prince Charming," she would half-sing, pressing a kiss to his slender, white throat. "My Prince Charming."

The wreath of roses he would give each night would shed petals in her wake, and when they bent their heads together in intimate conversation, the thorns would catch Dorian's curly hair and Sibyl would detangle them, laughing, the sound of a dozen bells on strings.

"Did you make a scene with her?" Henry asked, startling the boy back into the sunlit library, away from Sibyl.

Dorian sighed. "I was brutal, Harry," he admitted, sweeping a hand over the arm of his chair. "Perfectly brutal. But it's all right now." He managed a smile. "I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." His eyes, once again, rested on the screen that hid Basil's portrait, lingering.

Henry laughed. "A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you on it. But how are you going to begin?"

Dorian blushed again, the boyish innocence of his reply bubbling under his lips. "By marrying Sibyl Vane," he replied.

To Dorian's immense surprise, Henry blanched. "Marrying Sibyl Vane?" Henry repeated, standing suddenly. "But my dear Dorian, didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man!"

Dorian thought back to the letter he had neglected to open. "Oh yes, I remember," he said. "I have not read it yet."

"You know nothing then?" Henry knelt before his young friend, taking the boy's hands. Dorian shook his head, his gold curls scattering sunlight. "Dorian, my letter – now don't be frightened – was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead."

Chapter 3

Dorian reeled back with a cry. "Dead?" A thousand images and questions filled Dorian's head, and the memory of his dream came rushing back to him – Sibyl's crumpled form, her white body broken and bent. And then his mind rushed to the portrait – the sly smile, the cruel lines that had not been there when Basil's brush had given it color and life. The portrait had known.

"It is in all the morning papers," he heard Henry say solemnly and he forced his mind away from the thought of the painting, trying to focus on what his friend was saying. "There will be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris. But in London, people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make one's debut with a scandal."

Only one word of this struck Dorian with any clarity. "Did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Oh Henry, I can't bear it! Tell me everything at once!"

It had been no accident, Henry explained with grave patience. While leaving the theatre with her mother, Sibyl had stolen back upstairs and poisoned herself.

Poisoned herself. Dorian imagined her graceful hand reaching for that innocent bottle, placing it to her rose-petal lips, the ones he had kissed so many times, and tipping the neck skyward. Then, her body crumpled, her skirt a cloud around her legs, her last breath a fluttering bird.

(And this is where I start making things up. :D)

Dorian sat with his eye lowered, his eyelashes spilling shadows over his cheeks like intangible tears. "Henry, what shall I do?" he whispered through trembling lips. When he looked up again, he was no longer the fashionable Dorian that attended operas and dinner parties or who kissed a woman's cheek without a blush. He was the boy that Henry had found, aflutter, in Basil's studio so many months ago, his flushed cheeks and startled eyes those of a child.

"My dear Dorian," Lord Henry said, gazing at Dorian's trembling face, only to find that his eyes were swimming with tears. "Oh."

"How could I have let this happen?" Dorian murmured, his voice a flutter of butterfly wings. "I shall never forgive myself."

"Now, Dorian," Lord Henry said gently, placing his hand on that of the young man's. "It's not all bad. Sibyl was not made for this world. She was not more real than Juliet or Ophelia, and her passing was that of a shadow's." But these words did little to soothe Dorian, merely setting his lips aquiver once more.

"Oh, my dear boy." He patted the boy's cheek in amicable fashion. "Do no weep, for tears are too oft wasted on the dead."

"B-but," Dorian shuddered, a single tear spilling over his flushed cheeks. "B-but I loved her!" he cried, as if this were enough to bring her back.

"And so you did," Henry crooned, subtly slipping one foot from his shoe and working away the sock with his toes. "And her passing will haunt many a night." The de-socked foot was now sidling towards Dorian's calf. "But do not let nightmares become your waking visions."

Dorian gave a gasping sob, his curls shivering with emotion. The full horror of the situation was beginning to settle upon like pulp in a freshly stirred jug of orange juice. Meanwhile, Henry's foot was now fairly galloping towards Dorian's leg.

"I can just see her sweet, pale face, forever still, never to bring words to life again." Dorian's voice caught in his throat. "She was but a child, and I…I killed her!" he wailed. "So many lost words, so much wasted beauty…"

At this point, Henry had pulled Dorian to his bosom, patting the boy on the head.

"Dear boy, your locks are so silky," he noted suddenly, staring down into the bright forest of curls.

"So many nights unseen," Dorian continued, oblivious. "So many summers stolen. So much…"

"And your scalp…so moisturized," Henry remarked, peering closer.

"Oh, woe is me, to know that she shall never again dance among the leaves in autumn!"

"And your ear... my dear boy, your ear is a marvel! A marvel the likes of which have never been seen!" Henry inserted an experimental finger into said wonder, probing the whirl of cartilage with rapture.

"Henry, my dearest friend," Dorian cried, still oblivious. "I'm glad you're here, here to comfort me in this time of need." He gave a great wail of anguish that rattled the plaster on the ceiling, sending a shower of dust upon the duo, although Henry was now too busy inspecting Dorian's eyebrows to notice.

Just then, Dorian became aware that Henry's nose was touching his cheek.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Henry said, grinning sheepishly as Dorian's eyes rolled towards him. "I was just… um." He removed his face from the vicinity of Dorian's person, while also discreetly easing his foot back into his shoe.

"What…what were you doing?" Dorian asked, noticing that Henry was hastily withdrawing his finger from his ear.

"Um, nothing really. Nothing at all, actually." He coughed, looking around awkwardly. Dorian blinked, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Then, suddenly, he leapt into Henry's arms, his heart prancing with sudden desire.

"Henry," he said breathily, gazing into his friend's eyes blissfully. "I suddenly realize…you're all I've ever wanted!"

"But..but what about-"

"Sh, sh!" Dorian thrust a finger against Henry's lips. "Don't speak! Just kiss me, you fool!"

"Wait, what?"

Dorian glared. "You heard me."

"But… I don't want to."

"Excuse me?"

Henry coughed uncomfortably. "It's just, you see, I'm_ married_, Dorian. I do have some standards after all." He paused. "And frankly, you're a boy."

"So? That didn't stop Oscar." *rimshot*

"Ouch."

"Then tell me, _Henry_, what was with all the …" Dorian paused, searching for a word. "Fondling."

"Well, you have a lovely head and neck area. Very hygienic, and so well moisturized."

"And the leg rubbing? Hmm?"

Henry chuckled awkwardly. "My foot iched."

Dorian stared at Henry.

"Get out."

"What?"

"OUT!"

Then, with surprising strength, Dorian bodily lifted Henry and drop-kicked him out the window.

Chapter 4

Some hours later, as Victor was pruning the shrubs beneath the library, he noticed an odd trail of crushed grass and various personal affects littered about the lawn. Frowning, he followed the trail around to the back of the house. Then he saw him. There, clawing at the back gate, was Lord Henry, sporting two broken legs and various squirrel bites.

"Had another fight, did you?" Victor inquired dully, opening the gate for the near-rabid nobleman.

Henry grunted, dragging his body with tremendous speed through the gate and out into the wild.

"Ah." Thinking not for the first time that he wasn't paid enough, Victor sighed, and headed back to the house for a spot of tea.

A/N: Bet you didn't see that comin'.


End file.
